


Shields Made of Ecstasy

by Isagel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Caretaking, Dominance, Feathers & Featherplay, Held Down, Kink Bingo 2009, M/M, Protectiveness, Sensation Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean. Cas. Feathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shields Made of Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic I hadn't posted on the AO3 yet. Written in 2009.

He pushes Castiel onto the bed, going with him in the fall, pressing on top of him, straining to hold him down. And it's a fight, it's a struggle, except for the way they're kissing, the way he's shoving his tongue into Cas' mouth, the way Cas opens to let him. 

Or no, no buts. It _is_ a struggle, and it only gets better, _right_ er, when Cas puts a bit of his holy superpowers into it - just a little, just enough to throw Dean over on his back without effort, to wrestle him into the mattress without even having to try, though Dean is straining to buck loose, straining and writhing against all that unbreakable force. 

Hell, yeah, that's what he wanted. Cas' hands on his wrists, un-fucking-yielding, fingers he can bruise himself against, and he bites at Cas' lip, making a sound like a snarl, like a moan, feeling every bone in his body rattle and quake with the strength, with a goddamn _fraction_ of the strength of what Cas is when he kisses Dean’s head back into the pillow.

Only, that's the moment when Cas pulls back. Simply stops, with his legs straddling Dean's hips and his hands still holding Dean's wrists to the bed. Pulls back to arms length and stays there, looking at him.

Dean tries to follow him, chasing his mouth, but that's pointless unless Cas lets him, and he doesn't get close.

He sinks back down, and for the first time since he slammed the door behind them, he feels the room around them, is aware of the dimensions of it, the deep shadows and shafts of electric light cast by the motel sign outside the window, the rough fabric of the bedspread against the backs of his hands. And he's aware of the smell of sulfur, still stuck in his nostrils from all those demons, all the demons they drop-kicked back into the pit tonight, and all the ones that got away. There are so many of them now, after Lucifer pulled his great escape, the world crawling with them, and he can freaking _taste_ them on his tongue, the bitter, acid waft of Hell they bring, and he aches for Cas' mouth on his to burn it clean away. Because whatever the opposite of sulfur is, that's what Cas tastes like; yellow, too, but in a sunlight kind of way, like sunbeams cascading off the edge of a lead-blue cloud. Cutting bright through the shadows, and shadows is all he's made of.

He arcs up, reaching, but Castiel simply tilts his head, observing.

"I don't know why you always try to provoke me like this," he says. "Or rather..." his lips quirk a little, hinting at a smile, but it's one without humor, "...of course I know why, since it's written in your mind. With all the guilt you carry, at everything you think you’ve done or not done, how can you take solace from me unless it’s wrapped up in punishment? I see that. Those humans singled out by our Lord so often have had that same peculiar knack for self-flagellation.”

Dean swallows, and cuts his eyes away from Cas.

“Dude, I know you haven’t got much practice at this whole human interaction thing, but I have to tell you, psychoanalysis is not the way to get laid.”

Cas makes a sound resembling a sigh, and shifts his weight, less of it resting on Dean’s wrists. The trench coat rustles around them both with the motion, like tarp in the wind, or wings.

“I’m sorry, Dean. But you should realize, if I’ve been Heaven’s lash in the past, I’m certainly no longer. And even before I broke ranks, I never desired to punish you.”

There’s an opening there, to change the subject, the kind of opening he always takes, so he twists his hips up into Cas, letting him feel muscles slowly flex and stretch, feel Dean’s hard-on brush his thigh through their clothes.

“Yeah?” he says, shaping a dirty smile around the words. “What did you desire, then?”

It’s a stupid, stupid question, he knows that as soon as he’s said it, because Cas lets go of his wrist and lays his hand on his cheek instead, all tenderness in the thumb stroking beneath his cheek bone, in the too-serious blue of his eyes.

“To hold you and keep you safe,” he says. “To wrap you in my wings and cherish you.”

Which… No. That’s not…

“Dean,” Cas says, “you should let me…” 

He breaks off, as if he doesn’t quite know what to say, or, no, as if the thought of what he meant to say is too distracting for words. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them, and moves his hand to touch two fingers to Dean’s forehead. 

“Be still,” he says.

There is a wash of power, clean and yellow-bright and soft as a caress, and Dean _is_ still, only realizing when he relaxes how every muscle in his body was taut and straining. There’s nothing holding him, but he has no desire to move.

Fear touches his mind at that, but before it can really take shape, Cas says,

“No, don’t worry. I couldn’t hold you like this if you truly wished to break away. I would never deny you your free will.”

And no, he can feel it isn’t mind control. He’s just been soothed, somehow, gentled like a skittish animal. So that he’ll let himself take what Cas gives without completely freaking out, and, God, there’s a part of him that _yearns_ up towards the tenderness in Cas’ gaze, beating his heart raw against his ribcage to get there, and his mouth is dry with the dread of it, with knowing he doesn’t deserve…

Cas leans down, soft mouth to Dean’s ear.

“You will enjoy this,” he says.

Dean is suddenly naked. 

“Hey, no fair,” he says, eyeing Cas as the angel sits back again, his never properly adjusted tie tickling Dean’s shoulder on the way. “I’m sure this is another of those things they didn’t tell you in angel finishing school, but nakedness? Totally a two way thing.”

Cas does that close, but no cigar smiling thing again, and this time there’s definitely some sort of actual fun behind it.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the case, but if you wish.”

His clothes do the same vanishing act that Dean’s did. Or not the same, because Dean’s clothes are neatly folded on a chair by the door, he can see them out of the corner of his eye. When Cas does this, though, his clothes really vanish. Like they take a trip to another plane of existence for however long Cas wants to stay naked. It would creep Dean out, except - naked Cas.

Fucking gorgeous naked Cas, and okay, it’s disturbing that this body he loves looking at, loves touching, is the body of a man possessed, of a guy whose name he knows, whose wife he’s met, that he would never dream of sleeping with in a million years. Or maybe it’s more disturbing that he can’t make himself care, because he’s been promised that Jimmy won’t know this is happening, and the person who does know, the freaking _being_ who is actually here with him, has never for a second shied away from it. Has seemed to hunger for it from the first hard kiss Dean planted on his lips.

He was marked for this, he thinks, with that searing handprint on his shoulder, so how could it not be right?

Which is pure crap, since he’s never set much store in any fate but the one you wrestle from the jaws of life your own damn self, but still…he believes it.

The handprint is rough, though, ruthless like a battle scar, like the welts from the lash Castiel says he doesn’t want to be. Dean understands it. He isn’t sure he understands what’s happening now.

He makes to reach up, to pull Cas’ hard body down over his own, but Cas shakes his head and says, “Wait.”

 _Wait for what?_ he wants to say, but then it happens, and there is nothing to say.

Wings unfolding, unfurling from Cas’ human shape, stretching out towards the edges of the room. They’re shadows, like the first time, a ghostly silhouette of a giant bird, but like that time, he can feel them, the unseen presence of them that casts the shadows. A presence so large it fills the room, pushes the oxygen out of it, outshines the cold motel-sign light with a brightness he can’t catch with his eyes, but that his brain somehow knows is there. A warping of perception so total it short-circuits _everything_ , and he trembles, and he wants.

Then Cas…shakes himself. From wingtip to wingtip, like a wet dog shaking water from its fur, and it should look ridiculous, but it’s beautiful, the most graceful motion he’s ever seen.

The feathers appear out of nowhere. Materializing into visible objects, he realizes, the moment they come loose from Cas’ body. Fine down falling like silent snow, drifting from the height of towering wings; white, and purest gold, and shimmering in every color of the rainbow, all at once. A cloud of them descending, slowly through the air.

“Cas…” he breathes, and then the first ones touch him.

Softer than cotton and smoother than silk, stroking the flat of his chest before they come to rest; his ankle, the point of his knee. The corner of his mouth and the hollow of his throat and the inside of his forearm and then there are too many to count. Too many points of touch, of contact so gentle that he almost doesn’t feel it, except that nothing has ever felt more clear, every landing feather distinct and tangible and _warm_. Like a thousand brushstrokes on his skin, each one in a new place, unpredictable, unexpected. Each one a caress and a tingle and a breath of pleasure.

He doesn’t close his eyes, because he wants to _see_ , but no feathers fall in them. And Cas is there, at the center of a nebula of feathers, watching him, watching Dean drown in little parts of him, touching without touching, and the gentleness is like a razor, stripping him apart, brightness everywhere and he can’t hide, can’t keep from arching into it, seeking the fall of every feather, the rain of pleasure on his skin.

He’s panting, shivering, and he thinks there might be tears running down his temples from the corners of his eyes, down sticking in the wetness, clinging, and he wants, God, he needs…

“Cas, please,” he says, and he isn’t sure what he’s asking for, but Cas says,

“Yes,” and moves without moving, in that angel way, and from one heartbeat to the next, Dean is inside of him, buried in the heat and tightness of his human body without ever having pushed in.

It’s blinding pleasure, and something must be wrong with time, with space, because the feathers don’t stop falling, as if there’s enough of them to fall forever, and when Cas moves on him, when Cas leans over and grinds down and brushes fingers through his hair and kisses him, it’s as though the feathers fall _through_ him, as if not even his body can block them from Dean’s skin.

And maybe it’s the haze of down, fucking his eyesight up like staring into a blizzard, into the sun, but for a second, as he comes, he thinks he can almost see Cas’ wings - not just their shadows, but the burning things themselves - and they’re curled like a canopy above them, and the world and Hell and Heaven are far beyond, and Cas says “Yes,” into his mouth, and “Dean,” and for a moment, he doesn’t even remember what sulfur tastes like.

* * *

He falls asleep that night wrapped in Cas’ arms and a comforter of feathers. 

When he dreams of Hell, there’s something shields him from the flames.


End file.
